Six Nine Twelve


This Week’s Prompt: 12. Happenings in interval between preliminary sound and striking of clock—ending— “it was the tones of the clock striking three”.

The Research:Tick Tock Goes the Clock

The sun has started setting. Early summer sunlight slices through the glass. The clock ,a great red painted shape in the sun-room ticks on. A woman sits staring at it,in a dilapted couch. It hasn’t stopped, not in centuries since it was made. Its hour hands have moved silently compared to the statcco beats of the seconds. Tick tick tick tick, no booming looming bells beat beneath the surface of its face. Her family got the clock, back when the house was a castle. Back when the town was free of fog. Back, according to the clock, three hours past.

The man, strange and hunched over, had come to them. He had been brief, with a high clicking voice. He had promised to show them many secret things. She had sat there, listening as a young girl, as he spoke to her grandfather. Then, when she grew taller and older, he returned. Returned at three, after her grandfather rode into the woods. Returned at three, to ask something of her father. In that clicking, clatering, screeching voice.

Nine O’Clock

The stars were out now. Distant Alderbaan shown overhead, reflected neatly in the pale face of the clock. A number of small cherubs beautifully molded into the pearly weight face. They were smiling, but the woman knew them. They weren’t smiling out of good will.

They attended the family, when that man left. The clock clicked to their hour for decades, and while the hour hand rested there, while the heart beat away. And then they came forth, fat spiteful things. They grinned and showed cracked teeth. They’re gears looked rusted, the wings were certainly shaped like dove wings. But they fluttered up in down in sets of four, like a flies.

The woman knew them well. And the strange noises, the mree mree, they made. They brought fine wine, wonderful clothes, and chased off the wild dogs and snapping jaws of the jabberwocks. Tick Tock, the clock rattled on. Yes, the cherubs were delightful in the house, both old and new. And in distant Hali they danced and hunted rats. And scurried in a great rob of yellow, before the man came.

Twelve O’Clock

The woman had barely eaten. She had only had bread, like her sisters and father before her. The ringing of the midnight hour startled her, slightly. It hadn’t made that loud, twelve striking in ages. When she was little, grandfather left. When she was younger, but not much, her father rode away. Now, though, she stayed. There was no reason to leave.

The clocking, hulking, ghastly thing could not ask much of her. All she had was this distant house, this red-white clock, some wheat in the cupboard, and a bottle of wine. In a black dress, she waited on the couch, the moon perfectly covering the face. As the moon drifted past, she saw the clock face pulled along with it.

It would strike three. And then, then it would come crawling out, looking to make its mark. For tribute yearly owed. But there was nothing left to give. The woman steeled herself, as the ticking went on. No doubt it would come.

No doubt the gears would turn. The hands would move, and tick tick tick would go the moments, as she waited. She could run, but it would come. She could read, but that might disturb her paitence. She might then become aware of her situation. And that would simply make it all the more painful.

The Clock Struck Three


Well, my fellows, that is what I managed to assemble. I couldn’t quite get the last bit to stick, and if I ever get to revising these, it will be of the highest priority. How about you? What happened when your clock struck three?

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Tick Tock Goes the Clock

The Clock

This Week’s Prompt: 12. Happenings in interval between preliminary sound and striking of clock—ending— “it was the tones of the clock striking three”.

The Resulting Story: Six Nine Twelve

Alright, so we have an ending line, which implies either some sort of fateful count down or at the least an imminent event occurring at three. What we are being invited to play with here is time, a thing which we have dabbled in the past (or future?) back in the eternal days of Yann. With that in mind, what can we do here?

Well, structurally, we can easily set the story into blocks, separated by time stamps. We’d have to end on around 2:50 or so, to allow for the three to come in at the end as prescribed. But what occurs could range from mundane to maddening. We could take a note from Edgar Allen Poe, and drive our characters made with an unseen but unwavering sound. An inevitable sound, the movement of inexorable time closing in.

We could, however, instead do something with the folkloric associations with clocks. Clocks owned by men and women were often thought to stop when the owner died (as paintings are supposed to fall, pets howl, and ghastly apparitions appear). A clock, however, that despite all evidence continues to tick suggests something…unwholesome about its owner. The clock that moves erratically, or that continues on past breaking is something of a terror. Time itself is undone, and with it goes good order.

I’m going to point to a particular story, not by Mr.Lovecraft but rather Mr. Harlan Ellison. Repent Harlequin, said the Ticktockman is a superb story that deals with the notions of time, of regularity, of chaos and order and hypocrisy. And happens to fit into today’s theme. For Father Time, the Master of Clock, is a terrible enemy. And that hostility might here be used. The clock strikes three, and that may mark the end of the struggle. After all, the story occurs between a sound and the clock striking. Perhaps it is over one hour, a desperate hour to escape the moment. To escape time, and in the end loss is inevitable.

There are stories abound, of course, in the Mythos of time. The Silver Key deals greatly with time travel, and anything to do with Yog-Sothoth is riddled with so much ticking and rippling of time that their reality is sometimes hard to know. And of course there are the Hounds of Tindalos, who come from a different sort of time. Time is one of those dreadful abysses, and the creatures that walk and swim in it are dangerous and alien.

So of our story? I don’t yet know, fellow necromancers. I suspect the structure will be as I proposed, with chunks separated by time markers. As for the content, some sort of struggle against time seems necessary for the subtext at least. This corpse may be …less human then most. Perhaps barely recognizable. But we shall see.

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The Parade

Dance in the Wild Wood

This Week’s Prompt:11. Odd nocturnal ritual. Beasts dance and march to musick.

The Research: Into The Woods

Between misty hills in the north of England, far from castle and home, rode Sir Aldrich on horse with chain and sword in hand. Court had grown tiresome, as it often does to those who’s eyes extend as far as a spear, or perhaps an arrows fall at the best, and no farther in time then a heartbeat. So for adventure he rode, to seek out giant, or dragon, or damsel in a high tower. Perhaps with an elderly father who was heirless or the like. Or at least a bandit lord, whistling in the forest. Something in the wilds called to him that day.
So Aldrich rode, until the sun finished its journey across the sky. HE made camp for the night, eating salted meat on fire. That was, until a strange noise approached, a trumpeting march from the dark. Sir Aldrich stared at the sound, as marching music grew louder and louder. And lo! A bear, with a marshal’s cap emerged, trumpet to its lips and a mayor’s cape flowing behind him. Behind him, walking like a man, came a boar and wolf.
“By God, I’ve gone mad,” Sir Aldrich said.
“Are you coming today, good sir?” the boar asked, pausing as they passed.
“To what?”
“To the parade of our Mother of course!” the boar said, continuing on his way. The knight stared off into the distance as they marched off. And convinced he had entered some delusion, he lay to rest. And would have been save in Hypnos’ domain if it were not for a persistent drumbeat.
Da-dum-da-dum came the beating of the drum. And out they came, marching through the black, leaving behind them a golden track of pennons. Upright came a flight of hawks and vultures, beating drums as they flew overhead. A man atop an alligator lead them, waving at the shadows.
“What in God’s-”
“Do not worry sire, we will be along. The parade is today! We must, must be on our way. Come along, you must see the parade!” he said, as the army ants crawled behind him, a mass of blistering red.
“Parade? It is night, why it is Sabbath night! What parade are you holding?”
“Why our father’s parade, our fair father!” the man atop the alligator said, tipping his large conical hat.
“Well, tell your father I need my rest! Hold his parade at some goodly hour, and get you gone!” Sir Aldrich said, gesturing anon toward the hills.
“We will, good sire, we will if we see him tonight.”
And so Sir Aldrich lay down to rest. And no drums beat, no trumpets blared, no marching feet were heard. But Sir Aldrich felt hands, great hands shake him awake, and a voice whisper in his ear.
“Tell me, traveler, tell me, are you on your way?”
Starting, with sword in hand, he confronted the shriveled old man, bent with age. Tired and exhausted, the knight forgot himself.
“No, sirra, I am not on my way! Were I to have my way, the next creature to disturb my rest, especially one in search of a ‘parade’ or in any way resembling a beast, I swear by high heave, I would smite with my sword and fists!” he bellowed, towering over the man.
“I am sorry, sire, but I have lost my way. Come, can you point me to the parade?” the old man asked. “For I wish to get there in all haste. I have an appointment.”
“They went north, yonder toward the hills. By the moon, its passed midnight. What parade could require such a night?” Sir Aldrich asked, turning to the sky.
“Come round and see. Or don’t. It will be gone before you hear it,” the old man said.
Sir Aldrich assented, driven within by a desire to dash all things that had disturbed him against the rocks. And so he followed the old man, sword by his side, to the great hills were a stone monolith stood. But it stood tall and large, large as a great mountain. And emblazoned on it were many images, images of beasts that the knight had not heard of nor seen on any shield or banner. Round it circle men who barked as beasts, and beasts who’s howls bore sembalnce to the speech of men. A great cacophonous song rose up from the spot.
Sir Aldrich turned to his companion, who stared disspassionately at the shifting waves of flesh, fires flickering between flies and ferocious wolves, trumpeting bears and women beating breasts. They whirled faster and faster, sweat and the moisture of their breathe making a fog of exhaustion. The old man waited.
“What, what on earth-”
“Oh, worry not about that place. It will rise back to you shortly. Sleep well, good Sir Aldrich. For you among all of Adam’s sons, has looked upon me and remembers,” the old man said, he mouth flashing teeth that were red, and his hands like wise and sharp claws. His face bore fur, scale, and stem, and in that moment, he was not he nor she, but a splendid spilling of blood and ichor.
And Sir Aldrich awoke, in a distant castle, in court, far from any dragon or giant or wild place.

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Into The Woods


This Weeks Prompt:11. Odd nocturnal ritual. Beasts dance and march to musick.

The Resulting Story: The Parade

This is a bit more of a corpse than the last few, and thus requires a little less explanation and a little more stitching. The first is what such displays resemble, in folklore. The role of odd nightly rituals has in the tradition of the West at least, belong to witches. Walpugisnacht, or the Witch night, is the most famous of the strange music and bestial rites at night. It is featured prominently in Faust, where it prevents the titular character from achieving his redemption. And then there is the Call of Cthulhu, by our good Mr. Lovecraft, who’s second act discusses a nightly ritual of witches. And lastly, in that Lovecraft vein, there is Shub-Niggurath, who has many beast associations as the Goat with a Thousand Young. Her followers engage in nightly and bestial ritual often, occasionally giving rise to terrible beasts of earth and sky.


The beasts here, however, preform uniquely human behaviors. The dance and march to music, in a way reminisce to a parade. A surreal scene to say the least, one that blurs the line between man and best. And there’s an animal for that. The ape.
In medieval times, and since, the ape has been recognized as something between man and animal. It looks, and acts, like both at times and earns an unsettling place in our hearts that way. There is a dichotomy embodied in the ape, of animal passion and human rationality. Which way it falls depends greatly on the story. Certainly, such a parade would be an interesting scene.

But would it make a story? The ritual it seems, assuming it has human participants, is either invited to or stumbled upon. If invited, we must ask by who and for what purpose? To be in some way a victim? No, this to me seems cliche. To be invited as a sort of initiation, into some strange mystery cult? That is more plausible.
If stumbling upon, it becomes a bizarre story. The protagonist finds the scene, is perhaps drawn in, and is left confused at its end (Assuming the participants don’t descend on him). Perhaps afterwords he sees the people again, or the animals, and recalls the night. Perhaps when beasts and men dance, the two become hard to tell apart, and he fears the wolf and the man with the wolfish mask as well.
Who is another manner entirely. We could return to an old corpse, the servant of the Caliphate. He has already shown an interest in strange customs and practices. An anthropological mind would probably examine such a rite, especially in newly earned lands.
Or, we could go the route of a new protagonist. We could go far into Britain, where witches might lurk with faery creates. The region has several Lovecraftian locales, with Berkely castle holding a terrible toad, and the Severn Valley having its strange nature. There is an entrenched legacy of Mr. Lovecraft here, and this could be mind.
Which do you think would be better? A return to a older protagonist, another round for the bureaucrat, or a new face from the far off isle?

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